Macarena
by Kali Ravel
Summary: A woman's feelings on her lover.
1. Chapter 1

It's awful to admit this, but sometimes I'm so sick of him. He's so busy with everyone else, with so little time for mean. And I know, I know he has his reasons, that he has things to do, that he's important to people, and I am proud of him.

I just wish he could be home sometimes. Just here, mine, not out there with everyone else. It may be selfish, but it's what I want.

He comes home so late, and falls into bed beside me while I'm sleeping. Sometimes, I try to stay awake, but I never know when he'll be back. Just a few more minutes, I think, and then they tick by, and I'm still waiting, and he's not home. Some nights, he doesn't come home at all, and when he does, I'm too tired to even notice. Sometimes I wake up slightly as he lies down beside me, but I fall straight back into sleep again, and when I wake up, he's gone.

Then there are the other nights, when he's at home, and I'm wide awake, but he's so exhausted it's all he can do to stumble to the bed. He lies there, sleeping, looking angelic, and it makes me so angry I almost want to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

He's getting older; we both are. We could probably relax now, and live in comfort. He's admired by enough people for that to be possible, yet he won't stop. He won't relax, or retire, or rest, he just keeps going.

My God, how ungrateful to begrudge the things he does to help others, in the name of my own comfort.

It's not only that I want him home, here with me. Some of the people he spends time with, they're not too fond of me. I hear the comments. They don't say it to my face like they used to, but I know what everyone thinks.

I get so frustrated sometimes. They don't know the facts, or the history, or the context, or any of the details which show that no one was in the wrong, no matter how regrettable an incident may be. But no, human nature requires someone to be in the wrong. If something is someone's fault, then it means that others can avoid the same fate. If an event can be attributed to something that some silly woman did wrong, it means that others may live happily and more comfortably, simply because they have drawn a line between themselves and her. By condemning me, they push themselves higher.

I cannot stand that holier than thou attitude. Liars, thieves and sinners, all of them, hypocritical martyrs sacrificing me to their own stupid ideas.

I know I'm better than that. I know that he loves me, and it shouldn't matter. I know that they cannot know the truth, or the history, that they are human, and it is human to err. He tells me that although they are not able to reach the same standards, I should be able to hold myself above them.

Why am I required to behave twice as well to be thought half as good? It isn't fair, and he agrees, but there's nothing he can do, not the way he is. I know that, and it is why I love him, but sometimes I wish, I just wish that someone could stand up for me. I wish that those who torment, and sneer, and make comments which are only just loud enough to reach my ears, I wish that they could be shown the error of their ways. I know one day they will be judged, as everyone must be, but right now I am so human, and impotent, and frustrated and powerless.


	3. Chapter 3

It is late, and he still isn't home.

I know the end is coming soon. Sometimes, I wonder if that's part of the attraction; the fleeting nature of his existence, like some butterfly who wanders in beauty for such a short time.

But, if that were the case, I wouldn't begrudge the things which go along with it.

I am torn; I don't know if I love him because of what he is, or in spite of it. Am I really that callous, to love him only for what he is, for what he does, for what other people think? Sometimes, when I hear the praise he receives, or the times when I enjoy the space to myself, I suspect I am. He doesn't hurt me; he doesn't treat me as inferior, as his little woman, sitting at home waiting for him. I do wait for him, but he doesn't expect it, and I don't confess to it. When he arrives I pretend to be asleep, longing for him to crawl into bed besides me and pull me close. I don't want to ask him to do it; I want him to miss me enough that he needs to, for himself. Sometimes he does. But then there are the nights when he turns away from me, not knowing I'm awake. Would it make any difference if he did?

Some nights, he comes home early, and I jump up and pretend to be distracted with something; cooking, or cleaning, or sewing, or painting, or reading or any of the hundred things which may convince him I have a life outside of him. He's never doubted it, but I've always been a good actress.

And some nights, he just doesn't come home.

I wish he were different. But, if he were, would I want him? Why am I here, waiting for him, if I wish he were different?

Perhaps because he is the only one to treat me so well. There are worse reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

They will come for him soon. He doesn't realise that I know, I don't think. He thinks I don't see.

Sometimes, I think about doing it myself. Quickly, violently, from behind with anything to hand; cooking pots, or knives, or even just a curtain rail, swung the right way. The impulses scare me.

I hate him. Oh, I hate him. The hate bubbles up inside me, so violent that I can't keep from shaking. I yell at him sometimes, scream at him. I want him to scream back, to be angry, to be irrational, to be passionate. I threaten to leave him, wanting a reaction.

He stays calm. He says he understands. He doesn't understand, he can't understand, else why would he be so dispassionate? Maybe he can tell how I feel, but he certainly doesn't understand what I want. But how can I blame him, when I don't know myself?

They're coming for him soon.


	5. Chapter 5

I was there. I was there the whole time; I stayed with him. I didn't think I could, but I did.

Sometimes, our time together seemed never-ending. Those nights when he wasn't there, and I waited. Those nights when he was, tired and asleep and lost to the world, and I lay awake beside him, unable to join him, wherever he was. The times we were happy seemed like they would never end, even though I knew they would, knew better than most exactly when. I didn't really believe it. He didn't, when he was young, but as he grew older, he did.

I see his face, and the way he looks at me. Even now, I am dissatisfied. He didn't look for me first. He searched the faces before him, though I don't know what he looked for. Still, he looked over their faces first, with such a calm, terrible expression. He didn't look for me.

I knew he wouldn't; should have known all along. He's always said that if anyone is family, everyone is. But still...even now, I want him to be mine, more than he is. I've always wanted more than he, even with all his power, can give.

Afterwards, after all the others, he looked for me. And it didn't matter any more, that I wasn't his first or his only. I am his last. That's something.


	6. Chapter 6

I stayed with him, that whole night. I watched others come and go, and she stayed beside me the whole time. She loved him as much as I did, more than they did, and I didn't begrudge her that. We weren't in competition; we were united. We saw something in him that the others, in all their numbers and all their empty words, just didn't see. That part of him, at least, was ours, and sometimes I wished to god and all that is holy that somehow, some way, we could keep that part. Split him in two. Let them have the hollow shell they wanted; let me keep the real man. Let her keep her son.

I heard what he said, finally, at the end. Even then...even then, he...

I'd hate him for it, but life is too short. Maybe I understand him now.

I enjoyed the shock when we were together. Him with her; really? Yes, really. It felt almost like revenge. But now he is gone, and we must cope alone. The looks and remarks will return now, and this time they won't be hidden. For his sake, I will try to rise above it.

It's easier to be self-sacrificing and loving towards him when he isn't here. What does this say of me?

Should I care what my actions say, and who to? He would say no.


	7. Chapter 7

He returned. Dear, sweet lord, he returned. He came back. I continually pinch myself to ensure it isn't a dream. He's home, he's returned. It's impossible. People would say I am crazy; perhaps I am. But, as he says, who cares what other people think? It is him, and he is home.

Even if I am insane, I prefer this madness to any kind of sanity.


End file.
